20Sorry for the long wait, but thank you for the kind comments and encouragement. I'm a very slow writer, but at least here's some more!
Soft hums and golden light reverberated around the room. Rosie felt stiff, like she had been standing for hours. She looked down and saw her legs were small, like a child's. She wore that Sunday dress, the one with white hosiery and her little pink shoes. Confused, she looked up to find a face smiling down at her. Her mother. She moving her hand slowly to brush a bit of hair out of her face. Dreamily, Rosie turned. Next to her on the pew was Richie, clad in his Sunday best, his black hair combed back with slick gel.
"Sister," he demanded, louder than one should be in church, "why are you crying?"
Rosie furrowed her eyebrows. Was she crying? Why was he angry?
She touched a hand to her face, but it felt like she couldn't move. The stiffness became overwhelming, and turned into paralyzing shock.
She attempted to open her mouth, to looking back at her mum, to do anything, but she couldn't will her body to be unfrozen.
Rosie awoke from her bed, eyes slowly blinking at the ceiling. Martha had pulled the drapes back, letting the pinkish morning light in. It must be just after dawn, she thought to herself. The memory of her dream—nightmare, rather—was still lingering. She brought her hand up to her face, moving the fingers ever so slightly, as if convincing herself she was still, in fact, mobile. What a silly thing, she thought. It had been years since she'd had a nightmare. Years more since she'd had one that involved her mother.
She closed her eyes, as if the very thought was a physical pang in her body. However strange the dream had turned, it had been almost calming to see her mother again in some form.
She rustled away from her blankets, lazily sitting up and rubbing her face awake.
There was something else, wasn't there? Something else in the back of her mind. She sat there for a moment, wondering what she forgot.
And then the thought of last night hit her. She closed her eyes again, remembering the slow dance with Tommy. Tommy. She was calling him Tommy. Something in her stomach lurched, but whether it was regret or excitement or nerves, she couldn't tell. What kind of spell was she under? How had this happened in just one night? It was utterly unnatural for her.
She rose from bed after a moment of quiet recollection, and prepared for the day by powdering her face and tying her curls up in a messy updo. Rosie forced herself to not think about the night before, and to instead focus on the tasks she had for today. There was paperwork, letters to write, calls to make. Rosie needed to make sure her managers were on task to begin shipments to America. They needed to inform their investors, contact their associates in Boston to begin drawing up the manifests…
Her mind drifted. Nothing her job presented could be as interesting as Thomas Shelby. Her thoughts kept reverting back to that night, back to that sleepy, calm gaze on his face after they'd kissed—kissed! She felt her stomach lurch. Every memory from last night drizzled in, made foggy and unclear by the alcohol.
She had never done this before, never wrung her mind out for each little drop of memory over a night spent out. She felt seventeen again, crushing on soldiers and businessmen and criminals.
And Thomas Shelby was all three. And somehow unlike any she'd met so far. Perhaps she needn't be surprised.
She wondered why he had told her about Patrick. She had said it was loneliness, but was that truly what had prompted him? Was it her eyes, as Tommy said they looked like his? Did she truly remind him of his old friend? He had jumped into his story, like the words themselves were a ledge—perhaps he'd never told it. Perhaps he had been aching to. Perhaps he felt she was some sort of confidante.
I could be that, she thought. I could be a confidante for Thomas Shelby. Maybe he could be mine.
Rosie wanted to slap herself, she felt so silly. A silly woman hoping to steal a hard man's gaze for more than a night. Yet she believed, in a place more concrete than whims, that her desire wasn't unfounded. The question was whether she should have this desire at all.
As she went through the motions of her work, Rosie noticed Martha shuffling around the house, glancing in her direction not so often. The old maid had undoubtedly been snooping to find out who her suitor was—and she may have even sorted it out by now. Martha's gossip network of old hens like herself combined with all those had seen her on Thomas Shelby's arm meant her connections with the Shelbys would be on everyone's tongue soon enough. This was the true danger of being seen with Mr. Shelby. Their illicit business connections would be an easy guess.
Their name would soon be tied up. And that could prove fatal. If the Shelby's were caught in something else—in any number of their other rumored dealings…
But surely Thomas would know that. He seemed the sort of man to be prepared. Besides, she thought, not all rumors are true.
The Blinders would soon begin the careful process of adding the contraband to her lingerie shipments. She had no doubt she would be impressed with their professionalism; the Blinders' were known to be quick and clean, used to operating under the noses of patrolmen and dock workers. They were likely better at polishing off the details than either she or her brothers could be.
While Edward, the eldest, owned the company in name, she was its true boss. Edward had been destroyed in the war, mind and soul. And when he was finally discharged, he came home to four children with no mother. Rosie offered to take them, help him raise the little ones—but he refused. He knew just as well as she that she would resent that kind of life. So he left, rented a home in Reading and hired a nanny until—or if—he could find a wife. She hadn't seen him in years, though not for lack of trying. They tried to write, but Edward struggled to respond consistently. On the whole, he left the business for hers to run. Her father would've protested it, of course. They all knew how Father would have felt about Rosie being in charge, no matter how unofficial her capacity.
And Richard, almost five years younger, would rather spend his days on whiskey and snow and whores. A true measure of whether a potential partner had done appropriate research on Walls Family Incorporated was if they contacted her brother for a meeting instead of her. Many men disliked doing business with women—but those very men disliked doing business with Richard more.
When she'd first begun her work while Edward was off in France, Rosie chose to follow her father's legacy and never stray too far from the hard line of the law. It was only Richard—having recently quit university-who was aspiring to stretch the linings of his pockets, who had wanted more, who had decided to push the legality of their business. She spent weeks arguing with him, begging him not to jeopardize the family name. And Richard—the bloody fool—didn't listen. Rosie may run things in practice, but Richard could override her with a simple signature on the right paper.
And now they were smuggling for Thomas Shelby. Of the Peaky fucking Blinders. Was this how her empire would begin? And would its end involve her wrists in cuffs? Why had she said yes?
She was in a knot of all sorts. And the worst part was she liked it. She chose to accept his business, hadn't she? And she itched for his calls.
But whatever regrets she had, she couldn't entertain them now. The Shelbys knew what they were doing. She would trust in them, for now.
That morning, her first order of business was to call her brother. The plans could go into motion without his awareness, but it was better to inform him of a few choice details. If she played it right, he'd could be satiated with just a few lies. First, she needed to explain the Boston movement. He couldn't be surprised over shipments being sent across seas. Then, she would need to give a reason to rid several of their employees. Really, this was an action long overdue. The ammunition had been going on under a few of the overseers' noses, and it wouldn't be long before they would have to start shilling out extra coin to buy their silence as well. The Blinders needed to come in and prepare the shipments themselves, alongside with more of the Roys' men. Did it make her a tinge worried to fire their employees? Good men, who'd worked for them for years? Who needed to provide bread for their children?
Don't be ridiculous, Rosie thought. We'll give them a severance pay. They'll find new work. We could even offer to transfer them to other plants outside Birmingham. It needs to happen for this operation to work.
She dialed her brother.
"Richard," she said, forgoing a 'hello.'
"Rosaline." He stated, "Why've you called?" He sounded hungover. Or perhaps still drunk. Either way, she needed him to shake the grogginess out.
"How long would it take for you to meet me at the museum in Birm?" She asked.
"Birm? You want me to come all the way back to Birm?"
"Yes," she replied sternly. "How long?"
"God, I don't know" He said. There was a pause. "Noon, I'd guess. Why are you insisting on a museum?"
"I need to meet with you," she replied.
He grunted, a typical noise for Richard. Finally he said, "Fine."
"I'll meet you at noon, Richard," she sighed and hung up the phone.
The museum in Birmingham was half-finished with its west wing being refitted entirely. The other half was still open to the public, however, and that side was were Rosie stood, on the steps waiting for her brother to arrive.
She'd chosen this location for more than one reason. First, it provided a neutral ground. Rosie did not want to have this discussion in her home, or in the offices or anywhere that reminded Richard of her authority over the business. Second, the museum's art reminded her of her mother's paintings. If anything, perhaps that would be enough to give her a sense of courage. Facing off with her brother never left her feeling particularly strong.
Unfortunately, this sort of conversation would have to be in person. She was half tempted to leave it over the telephone—it would certainly be quicker. But having it in person showed Richard that their new business prospects were a serious step. While she didn't want to disclose everything, it was a rather serious matter.
Richard finally drove up, parking sloppily near the front. He marched up the steps, clad in a black coat and wrinkled vest. It was clear he hadn't shaved in a few days.
"Richard," she said, giving a weak smile.
"I'm here, Rosie. Why did you bring me out here?" He said, eyes squinting in the bright overcast sky.
"Let's go in first," she said, leaving him on the steps to go inside.
The pink halls were vast and vaulted, and showcased several sculptures, positioned in little coves in the walls.
Rosie paused in front of a statue of a woman in a veil. She spoke quietly.
"I want to speak with you about the shipments," she said. Before Richard could protest, she said, "No, I'm not here to argue about it."
"Then why did you ask me here?" Richard whispered, annoyed.
"I'm expanding our exports to Boston," she declared, her voice sounding more bored than anything else. "I have contacts in America. You remember Mr. Golding, right? He says my products could very well do even better over there," she said.
Richard grunted, taking out a cigar and lighting it. "Very well. What else?"
Rosie knew he wouldn't be overly concerned with her business. The very idea of her lingerie line was uncomfortable for the bastard. He saw it as a frilly, womanly joke. Good. The less he cared about the contents of their shipments, the better.
"We have some concerns. About Rovksy."
Richard frowned. Rovsky was the head manager of the Small Heath plant, one of their long-time employees. He'd been around during their father's time.
"Why?"
She had prepared for this. "He was causing issues with some of the employees. Red mongering, you see."
"Ah, a commie." His face finally broke out of its stony, defensive guard and he chuckled a little. "Can't say I'm surprised with him."
"And he's not the only one. The very fact that the Small Heath factory has such a presence could provide complications," she said.
Richard exhaled smoke and looked at her expectantly. Of course I would have to explain, she thought drolly.
"Firstly, they might demonstrate. Higher wages, unionize...," she drifted off, stepping from sculpture to sculpture with Richard following slowly. Her brown pumps clicked on the floor softly with each step.
"Secondly, Rovsky and his ilk might attract attention. At best, they're arrested and we're left squat with half the factory absent. At worst…,"
"They suspect we're in on it, as well," Richard finished. Good. He was paying attention to the important part. But even better, he was buying it.
"A horrible outcome," Rosie said, nodding as if he was the first to think of the idea.
"So we oust him and his men. I presume you already have a list?" He said, eyeing one of the sculptures.
"Yes. I can get it done within a week. We'll have to hire new men but-,"
Richard waved his hand, signaling he didn't want to hear. "I'm sure you'll have it done soon. Now, is this all?"
Rosie nodded, pulling out her own cigarette and lighting it. "That's all. I only wanted to confirm with you before we began."
Richard sighed. "Why couldn't you have simply told me over the telephone?"
"Is it so unlikely that I'd want to see my brother now and then?" To Edward, the question wouldn't have felt so forced. But to Richard, it felt like declaring she could fly.
Richard narrowed his eyes, confused. "Don't lie to me," he stated, his voice low.
"I'm not, Richard," she replied, giving a gentle smile. She wasn't the best liar, but she knew her brother well. "I simply thought it would be good for both of us to meet in person. Get some fresh air. Taste a bit of the arts," she gestured halls.
"Right," he sniffed, his tone unbelieving. "You never were the best liar, Rosie. When were you going to tell me about Shelby?"
"What?" Rosie asked, her voice squeaking a little. His question had struck her entirely off guard. Was he sitting on this information the entire time?
"I was meeting some mates a bit south of 'ere," He started, closing his eyes and rubbing his temple. "We was having a nice night. And then I heard some news. My mate says to me, 'When'd your sister go into business with the Shelby's, eh?' Fookin' gypsy bastards. And he tells me the rumors of you 'n Shelby, meeting at a pub a few nights ago. Were you even going to tell me about that, Rosie?"
"I-," Rosie felt at a loss. "Who I see has little effect on you, Richard."
It was the wrong thing to say. His temper ignited.
"Bloody 'ell, Rosie, the fuck do you mean? Of course it has an effect on me. You going 'round, fucking criminals doesn't-,"
She shushed him. He was starting to raise his voice.
"Criminals? Don't you forget. We aren't exactly in the best light of the law either."
Richard's brow furrowed. "We aren't 'alf the trouble Shelby is. You've heard the things I have, I know you have. He's a madman-his men cut up their enemies' faces in broad daylight. They steal gun shipments from the fookin' military! An-and they're now fighting with the Italians, in case you 'aven't heard! What business do you got running around with Thomas fookin' Shelby?" He demanded, his chubby face red and blotchy.
"This isn't your business, Richard." Rosie's voice felt calmer than the rest of her.
"Bloody 'ell it isn't!" His voice rose again. Rosie looked over her shoulder and saw the other museum patrons starting to look over, curious at the heated argument. Her own face reddened.
"I wouldn't have thought you, of all people, would get into bed with that fookin' gypsy," he spat.
"Don't call him that!" she fired back, her voice raising slightly to match his. "Don't call him that," she said quieter, glowering.
Richard blinked. He almost look like he was about to say something, but Rosie cut him off.
"I run this company." Her voice was so low, it was almost a whisper. "I manage everything from its finances to its reputation. You don't." She raised her head, forcing herself to look into his eyes. His sunken, hazed eyes.
Richard stared at her for a moment, opened his mouth to say something again, then just shook his head and scoffed, a harsh sound. "You've really got your head up your own arse, don't you? You think you're the center of the company? If you get caught up in their business, you'll end up bein' run by Thomas Shelby. You can't be careful enough to avoid it—and I'll be damned before I make deals with that fookin' Brummie gang. You'll see Thomas no more," he said, his voice dripping with anger.
"You can't tell me—,"
"No more." With that, he brushed past her and began to walk away.
"It was me who took over when Ed was off at war. I took over when he came back, broken," her voice cracked ever so slightly on that last word. "I have the right to choose who I see. I deserve it!" she declared, her voice chasing after him.
He ignored her and kept walking. How could he? How could he demand her to do anything? He was his father, believing his manhood was enough to force her to behave.
Rosie interrupted her own thoughts. She was still in the museum, and the other patrons were eyeing her. She looked around once or twice before readjusting her posture, holding her head higher and leaving the way she came.
It wasn't until Rosie got home that she let the weight in her chest bubble up. She felt coated in her anger. She had Martha draw a bath so she could soak in the scorching water, letting her skin redden and wrinkle, taking long shots of brandy.
She hummed for a long while. Humming turned to singing. Her voice had never been very strong but she could carry enough of a tune. She sang until the water started to cool and Martha knocked to ask about supper.
Richard had always been the more irrational of the three Walls children. Edward, ever the older brother, had a sense of calm and reason to him. He was the father's favorite, both for his disposition and his being firstborn.
Meanwhile, their father always thought Rosie was too headstrong for a woman. She needs to learn her place, he would declare to her mother, as if her mother could magically make it so. But their father was right in that she was stubborn, proud, confident. Her indelicate nature often lent herself to impulse, but that was something she had tried to restrain over the years. Though recent events could say otherwise, she thought dryly.
But Richard? Richard, the youngest, the baby. Their mother always doted on him, adored him. His temper was always foul, and he was the least interested in his studies. He bullied smaller children outside of school, ran his mouth at his teachers. If his father had been alive when the war had started, he would have gone mad that Richard was too young to enlist—he always said the boy needed something to shake discipline into his bones.
She and her father never agreed on much. But sometimes Rosie too wished Richard had been the one to have gone to war, not Edward. Edward, their sweetest brother, tortured by what he saw in France.
Not unlike Thomas, she thought suddenly. She remembered his story. She wondered if Edward had stories like that. She was sure he did, but Edward would never speak of the war. And she would never ask.
After some time, Rosie pulled herself from the bath and dressed herself. There was simply no question whether she would listen to Richard or not. She'd made up her mind the moment he revealed he'd known about Thomas. He didn't control her or own her. No man would. If she wanted to pursue Thomas, she bloody well would.
After all, what could he do? Everything was in Edward's name, and Edward would never force her to step down. Richard had few contacts of his own. Rosie had built everything the company had done in recent years. The power lay with her.
But some small voice told her it wasn't that simple. Richard could overrule her. Hadn't he already, with the shipments?
Rosie could feel her stomach twist every time she thought it over. His face, red and puffed up, demanding she not see Thomas again. Presuming they were sleeping together; that it even mattered.
How did he even know? How had his friend even known? Were the news of Thomas and her truly spreading that quickly? What sort of rumors and bawdy tales were people saying? Why did they care? Why was it so scandalous?
All these questions ran through her head, but she knew the answer. This was Thomas Shelby. He was infamous in Birm, she knew that and had seen that with her own eyes. And had she forgotten the way the patrons at the club had eyed her? She was new to them, new and on Thomas Shelby's arm.
It occurred to Rosie that she didn't actually know whether Thomas Shelby was known for womanizing. She tried to wrack her brain for the various things she'd heard about him or his habits. But she couldn't think of anything-besides, even if she could, could she trust it? Rumors and more rumors. She needed truth.
Her mind was so full of these thoughts, she felt ill and foggy. Rosie wanted to sock something-preferably Richard, maybe punch that contempt right out of his bloody face.
She could practically hear her mother tsking, softly warning her. "Violence does not fit a lady," she would have said. "Men brawl. We aim for better solutions." Rosie could hear her say it so well, she almost wondered if she were recalling an actual memory.
Fuck solutions, she thought irrationally. Fuck propriety. She resolved to violate all of it, to shake her mother's voice out of her head. To ignore Richard.
But something he said was gnawing at her insides. "If you get caught up in their business, you'll end up bein' run by Thomas Shelby."
What if Thomas had only asked her for a dance so he could gain leverage? So he could soften her will and blind her to his faults?
What if Richard knew something she didn't?